Because, It Would Be More Interesting
by Gyte-san
Summary: Wouldn't it be more interesting if it were all a dream.


**Because, in the end, wouldn't it be more interesting if it were all a dream.**

Harry could see the crowds cheering around him. There in the crowd stood the love of his life, his friends, and the remains of his adopted family. What was even more noticeable were those who were not there, the ones who he would never see again. A small shadow draped over his heart, and he knew it would never leave. He would never forget them, but now was not the time for grieving. Now was the time for the living. Voldemort was dead, never to return this time.

Several of those out in the crowd were suffering from injuries received in battle. They must be attended to. Harry himself should probably visit a healer as soon as the more severely wounded were looked at.

Rebuilding would come next. The ministry, the school, and people's lives will all need to adjust. So much turmoil. He would need to spend the next several decades fixing the damage Voldemort caused. The remainder would no doubt be spent preventing the reoccurrence of such an event.

No doubt tomorrow problems would arise. The prophet's fickle readers will not know who to side with. Most will not believe what happened here until many months had passed. Too much paranoia and too many conflicting rumors will keep many from celebrating until undeniable proof arrives at their doorstep.

Then there is the situation with the remainder of the Dark Lord sympathizers. His own fugitive status must be dealt with. The ministry would have to be….

No more of that. Problems can wait until tomorrow. Right now, even though he hated his fame, and even though he hated when he got this kind of special attention, he felt good. The cheers of those who knew, respected and loved him filled his ears. He could never remember feeling this happy, this relieved, this content. He looked back at his true love. He ran out to her, catching her in his arms and kissing her soundly. The cheers got louder, and the scene shifted.

His wedding, as beautiful as it was simple. Friends and family only. NO PRESS! Done in secret and under the stars.

The birth of his first born, so beautiful and pure.

More children, first steps, first days of school, happy moments with family…

He tried to hold on to these memories, but he could feel them slipping away ever so gently. He tried to force them to stay. He tried to force himself to keep them. He tried to gently put himself back into them.

Reality is a bitch.

No matter what you do, the dream ends.

Sucks to be you.

First thoughts as one gets up add confusion.

Harry saw his surroundings. 'Bars? There are bars on my window. Am I back at the Dursley's?"

Glancing in the direction of the door, 'More bars. A cell? How did I… No matter. Surely the ministry will forgive me getting myself out of here. Now where is my wand?'

Reality takes a little while to set in. Dreams can be persistent like that. 'No wand? Who took my… No wand. Never was one. Stupid kid.'

Prisoner 934 came back to reality. How sad.

The day then continued as it always did. Inedible breakfast, followed by pointless walking around a grey, cement courtyard. Creamsi beat up Dixie in front of him. He knew better to say anything or to call for the guards.

He got to meet his court appointed attorney. He rattled on and on. About what, Harry wasn't sure; it made no difference to him. Court today. Nice suit, polished shoes, crisp cuffs, plain tie, all procured for him by said attorney.

In court. Judge hardly looks at him. A few are in the crowd, none are there for him. Everything is grey. He knows colours exist, and that they are present, but he can't see them. The lady in the front is looking at him. Reporter, wearing a light coloured shirt. He is sure it is probably yellow or pink, but he can't tell, he doesn't care enough to tell. She is looking at him. He knows he has never seen her before, but she seems to know him. How strange.

Words are said, he half listens. It is his turn to speak.

"Guilty, your honor."

A pause then more words. He catches a few of them, "for the premeditated murder of Vernon Dursley… life sentence… possibility of parole…" The rest fades out. No matter.

In a room, how he got there is a little fuzzy. Is this the same day?

Reporter is there. The lady in the yellow, or was it pink, shirt. Blouse actually, that's what they're called right? Too frilly for a shirt.

"Why did you do it?"

He missed something. What is she talking about again?

She notices she finally has his attention. "Why did you kill your uncle? The man who loved you and took care of you for 16 years?"

Vernon never took care of him… did he? Never once said a kind word to him. He hated him.

"How could you leave your two cousins fatherless?"

Two cousins? He only had one… didn't he? He tried to remember. He did kill Vernon, but why? Was he abusive? He thought he was, but he thought he only had one cousin. What can he remember?

The dream. That is all he can remember. The dream where colour lives.

He is tempted to ask the reporter for the truth. Ten to one she knew more about it than he did. No, better not think about the truth too much. She is looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. He gives her the only one he has.

"Once there was a boy, a very special boy, a boy-who-lived, but he knew none of that. All he knew was his cupboard under the stairs and the hatred he received from his uncle, aunt and cousin."

The reporter already had her trusty tape recorder on. She always recorded every interview, and she stored her old tapes very carefully. Never could anyone say she misquoted them, for she had proof. She takes notes anyway. They come in handy when the time comes to write the article. And now, an answer. The abused child angle made sense. The reason for such a senseless act. Something didn't add up though. Cousin? As in one? Her writing slowed.

"He had been lead to believe that he was worthless, just like his parents. He had been told that they died in a car crash, but they didn't. They were brave, noble people. They had died protecting their only child. They were in hiding, hiding from a very powerful man. They were well hidden, but were betrayed by one of their closest friends." The writing speeds up. New information! Brilliant. The mistake before must just be a slip of the tongue. "The man they were hiding from was none other than the dread and very disturbed Dark Lord, Voldemort."

The writing stopped. All she could do was listen as wands, witches, wizards, giants, goblins, owls and a flurry of other magical happenings wove around a twisted boy's story. What was real and what was imagined? She would never find out. She never writes the article. She returned home with a dream in her pocket in the form of a little cassette tape. A friend of hers would listen to it at times, entranced by the story. She would tell what she could remember to the kids she taught. They would dream of themselves in the wondrous school and repeat these dreams to friends and younger siblings. Bits and pieces would fly about and turn into other stories. Perhaps, one day some of the pieces might arrive in the same place and be written into a story. Perhaps, one day children all over the world would get to experience part of the dream.

Perhaps, but Harry didn't think about it. He thought about very little. Better that way.

He thought of dreams. Which one would it be today? He hoped it would be the one where he was the crown prince of a far off land, fighting to reclaim the throne that was taken from him by his demented younger sister. He was partial to the wizard dream, but variety was the spice of life.

The day would begin too soon, the colours would fade, and all he knew came from his dream. Doesn't matter…

Because, in the end, it is all more interesting.

* * *

For those who wish to know, this idea came from a random conversation I had. I am not sure who I was talking with, but all of us were talking about how we were disappointed in the ending of the seventh book. Someone mentioned how it would be more interesting if Harry (or some kind with cancer or something) woke up and it was all a dream. I agreed; it would be hilarious. And thus, this story is born.

I apologize to the devoted readers of my other fanfic who have been waiting for five months for an update. I know I should be working on that, but I couldn't help myself.

Oh, and I don't own Harry Potter… just thought I might need to put that in.


End file.
